


It's a good excuse (even if it's really not)

by Meyers1020



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Platonic cuddling that isn't platonic at all, Soft Bellamy Blake, still mostly fluff though, this was supposed to be straight fluff - sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:29:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meyers1020/pseuds/Meyers1020
Summary: "You have got to be kidding me."An indignant huff comes through the line. "I'm serious, Clarke. They make me twitchy."Or: In which Bellamy calls Clarke because of a thunderstorm and Clarke is supportive, even if it catches her off guard.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 122





	It's a good excuse (even if it's really not)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWordsInMyHead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWordsInMyHead/gifts).



> So... this is my first work for this fandom, technically, anyway. I helped TheWordsInMyHead with a one-shot, which was fun. (Speaking of, she's amazing, and this is for her. I have her to blame for simultaneously ruining and enhancing my life by introducing me to The 100. Also, her to thank for editing, cheerleading, creating the awesome graphic, and walking me through posting. Check her out.)
> 
> This one-shot started as a drabble about thunderstorms, but ballooned into a one-shot. In typical me fashion, it's way longer than it should be. 
> 
> Fun fact: I only ever managed to work on it when it was actually storming out, so that was fun.

"You have got to be kidding me."

An indignant huff comes through the line. "I'm serious, Clarke. They make me twitchy."

"You're a grown ass man," she retorts, exasperated at being woken up at half past eleven when she _finally_ managed to fall asleep just thirty minutes ago. "I've seen you take a hit to the jaw from someone twice your size without blinking. You pick up disgustingly large spiders with your bare hands and carry them outside. You eat brussel sprouts without gagging. You're the _adult_ between us, Bellamy. How can you possibly be afraid of thunderstorms?"

"I'm not _afraid_ ," he defends. She hears the rustle of fabric moving against the speaker as he shifts. She smiles despite herself, picturing him huddled under his blankets like a child hidden away from the storm. It shouldn't make her feel as endeared as it does. "I just don't like them. They're unpredictable. You never know when the next flash or rumble is going to come. You're just _waiting_ , unable to do anything about it."

She feels a little twinge at his words. She can hear the tenseness, envision how he's speaking through a clenched jaw, and picks up on the hint of anxiety his voice betrays. That's what this is really about. 

They haven't known each other for long, just a few short months since she moved into the apartment upstairs, but she already knows that he has an inherent need to be prepared as possible, to feel in control of a situation at all times. The little clues she's pieced together about his past seem to indicate it was necessary for his and Octavia's survival. 

If anyone can understand the far-reaching effects of unresolved adolescent issues, it's her, so she forces back the exhaustion and sits up, ready to give him her full attention. She's still trying to work out what strategy will work best for him when thunder rolls outside and his shaky breath sounds across the line. 

"Okay," she says simply, keeping her voice as soothing as possible. "Just breathe for me. Count it out." She counts with him for several breaths, then, "That's good. Is it helping?"

"A little," he says, but she can tell he's still tense. "The focusing is good, but it's still distracting."

"Hm…" she hums, thinking it over. "You're still working on that book, right?"

"Yeah. But I don't see - "

"It'll keep your mind occupied. Just put your headphones in, turn on your writing playlist, and hide under the covers with your laptop."

"That's not a bad idea, actually," he replies, sounding thoughtful but not surprised. It warms her chest, realizing that he called because he trusted her to help him, that he knew she'd have a good idea. 

He begins setting up, keeping her on the line. She doesn't object, her sleepiness having faded and her grumpiness at being woken with it, and just enjoys him talking through his tasks. He's kind of a giant nerd, but she's entirely too fond of him for it. But then the thunder sounds again, much closer, a rumbling that reverberates through the building, and he stumbles over his words. 

His voice is tight when he recovers. "Yeah, I'm not sure this is going to work anymore."

She withholds a sigh because she gets it. Even she, who loves thunderstorms on a level that is almost sacrilegious, feels a spike of adrenaline when a storm this powerful is directly overhead. It's different for her - it makes her feel powerful, infinite even, as if she's part of the storm itself - but she understands the magnitude that it brings.

"How about - " she starts, before cutting off when he sucks in a breath and holds it under the thunder rolls again. 

It takes her only a moment to realize that the lightning must have tipped him off, but that she missed it. (Her hours at the hospital are swing-shift and make for an insane sleep schedule; she doesn't mess around when it comes to the double layer of black-out curtains on her bedroom windows.) Inspiration strikes and she makes the offer before she can think it through. 

"You should come up to my place."

When her brain catches up to her mouth, she has to bite her lip to stop herself from saying more. It's not meant to be a proposition, but her heart is still racing now that it's out there and she's picturing him in her room with her. Anything else that comes out of her mouth will likely be far too breathy and only make things worse. 

He hesitates, and she has to resist the urge to facepalm. They're friends, sure, but not the kind who hang out in each other's apartments late at night. He probably just wanted someone to talk to, someone who wouldn't make fun of him like his sister or any of their other friends, and she had to go and make it weird. She's just about to blame her behavior on lack of sleep after working a double when he clears his throat.

"Yeah. Uh, yeah. I can - that would be great. Thanks," he stumbles over his words. She can't tell if the nerves are the storm or the position she's put him in and she's about to rescind the offer when there's another crack of thunder. He releases an unhappy noise and there's urgency in his tone when he says, "Be right up."

The phone disconnects with a click and she flops back onto her pillows with a loud sigh. This is probably a bad idea. She's had a crush on Bellamy almost as long as she's known him, even when he was an ass to her at first. She couldn't help it; he was too soft with Octavia to truly be the dickhead he portrayed himself as. 

And now she invited him up to her apartment in the middle of the night, to hang out in her room no less. Granted, she doesn't have to invite him into her room when he gets there, but if she doesn't, it defeats the whole purpose of using the blackout shades to spare him some of his anxiety. She'd feel like a terrible person if she kept him away from something that could help him just because having him in her room was likely to make her heart race and her cheeks flush. 

The knock on her door comes far sooner than anticipated and she launches out of bed in a rush to answer it. No way should he have gotten up here so quickly. 

Her breath catches in her throat when she opens the door and sees him standing there. He's in flannel pajama bottoms and a torn hoodie, glasses on and hair ruffled, looking at her with flushed cheeks and gratitude in his eyes. It's a lot, honestly, especially when she notices his own breathing is quicker than normal. It takes a moment for her to remember to step back and let him in. 

He steps in, awkwardly looking around the living area and rubbing the back of his neck. He's been to her place before, but this is different. Intimate in a way, given their attire and the low lighting. She's never seen him more vulnerable; she's never felt this endeared by him. He tenses when the light flashes just before the thunder rolls again.

Snapping out of her daze, she swallows back her attraction to focus. 

"Come on," she says gesturing to the kitchen, "I'll make you a cup of tea."

He nods, following her quickly. 

If she weren't so tired, she'd likely blush at the state of her kitchen - dishes, though rinsed clean of food, are piled high in the sink, the recycling is overflowing, and her mail is haphazardly strewn about her small table. As it is, she only got off an eighteen-hour shift at the hospital three hours ago and doesn't feel the least bit guilty at having used that time to take a long bath and binge Netflix instead of cleaning. She still has one clean mug for Bellamy, at least, and her water dispenser thankfully has a hot water setting too so it's as simple as filling the cup and dropping the bag in. 

She half expects Bellamy to comment on it when she hands him the mug, because that's the way they are, they tease one another mercilessly, but he doesn't say anything. He simply nods in thanks. She does her best to mask her surprise at the tact, but then she remembers that the twenty-something man in front of her is here because he's freaked out by the storm outside, and she chalks it up to him not wanting to be made fun of in turn. 

He shifts on his feet, still looking nervous, as he cradles the mug between his hands and blows on the surface. A smile threatens to break free, so she turns her back to him and says, "Honey is in the cabinet to the right of the refrigerator. I know that's how you usually take it. Grab me the creamer for me while you're at it?"

She smiles down at her old cup of coffee as she tops it off with what's left in the pot from yesterday morning. It's not worth making anything fresh. Waste not, want not and all that jazz. It slips as he speaks and she looks at him incredulously. 

"What are you doing?" he asks sharply. 

"Uh, making coffee? You know I don't like tea." She wills the heat in her cheeks back down, hoping he won't press on why she has tea on hand if she doesn't like it; she isn't alert enough to lie properly and the last thing she wants to do is admit she bought it for him. 

(He got sick last month. She bought it just in case he ran out. That's just being a good friend, right?)

He doesn't press, but he does look affronted… alarmed? She's not exactly sure. "How old is that? You didn't wash it first. You didn't even dump the cup! That's just asking to get sick."

She wants to laugh again - that's what all this about? - but instead raises one brow teasingly. "Who's the doctor here?"

"I spent half my life working in the food industry, Clarke. Do you have any idea how fast germs and bacteria replicate at - "

A burst of laughter escapes against her will. It's just - he's fucking adorable, all comfortable-looking and earnest in her kitchen, explaining the dangers of drinking old coffee - and she's too tired not to be completely charmed by literally everything about him right now. 

He gives an indignant huff, looking almost ready to pout. "It's not funny. I'm serious. It's disgusting."

She catches her breath while removing her coffee from the microwave and taking a tentative sip. Good enough, she thinks. Still smiling as she turns back to him, she lightly points out, "It's not going to kill me, Bellamy. Besides, haven't you ever heard of the hygiene hypothesis? A little old milk will give me a stronger stomach."

"I don't think that's how that works," he says with his nose scrunched and lips turned down at the corner. "At all."

"Maybe not," she admits with a shrug, "but I do it all the time and I'm still alive. Now," she says, tugging on his elbow, "come on. I have a plan."

He continues to grumble about it under his breath, but follows her willingly. It's almost painful how much she adores him when she sees how he holds his still steaming cup of tea off to the side, as if he's taking deliberate care to make sure it won't hit her if it sloshes over the rim. This was probably the worst idea she has ever had.

Her crush is never going to die at this rate. In fact, her stupid, teeny-tiny crush has somehow surpassed crush-status and reached full-blown adoration in the last ten minutes. Her heart races at how much worse it could get over the course of the night, but she pushes back the panic.

We'll watch a movie, she assures herself. We won't even talk, and I won't have to look at his ridiculously adorable face. It'll be fine. 

It doesn't work, not really. When he tenses under her grip at the flash of light and thunder that follows, she realizes it doesn't even matter. 

If she'd thought about it seriously before, she would have said that she wouldn't ever bring up her feelings because she didn't want to ruin their friendship. Now, though, she'll stay silent because she is painfully aware that he could never return those feelings. It's never been more obvious that she is firmly in the friend zone.

Guys don't call girls they're interested in the middle of the night and admit they're afraid in an attempt to impress them. That's just not how they work, at least not in her experience. She thinks they probably should, if the way this night is making her feel is anything to go by, but toxic masculinity seems to have conditioned them otherwise. 

All of it is completely wiped away and replaced with glee, however, when Bellamy realizes where she's taking him and stops dead, a blush bright enough to shine through his tanned skin glowing on his cheeks and neck. She has never, ever, seen Bellamy Blake blush before and she's ridiculously pleased to be bearing witness to the event. 

He may not care about impressing her, but she gets to see him like this.

"What are you doing?" he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

Seeing his nervousness irradiates hers. She smiles gently at him, "I have awesome blackout curtains and noise canceling headphones in there. We're going to watch a movie and ride out the storm." She tugs on him. "I'll even let you pick the most boring documentary you can find."

He huffs again, doing his best to seem annoyed, but fails to fully suppress the upturn of his lips. She beams at him in victory and laughs when he scowls at her. It turns into a double victory when she sticks her tongue out at him and he actually chuckles at her. 

Taking one last sip of her coffee first, she puts the cup down in exchange for her laptop. She pulls out her good, noise canceling headphones (bought during undergrad when she had an absolutely horrible roommate), her regular headphones, and a splitter that had definitely seen better days, and climbs into bed. 

She’s decided not to let this be a _thing_ , but she doesn’t want him to feel uncomfortable either. The bed is a queen, so there’s plenty of room, but she scoots all the way in under the guise of plugging in her laptop. She ends up nestled in the corner with her back to the headboard and right side nearly touching the wall, leaving Bellamy the outside and plenty of space to get comfortable. 

She doesn't look at him, busying herself with untangling the old wires and waiting for her old laptop to get enough juice to boot up. She tries to ignore his careful steps and the cautious way he sits at the edge of the bed, one leg dangling off with his foot still planted on the floor, instead focusing on the machine before her. (Like the fact that she should probably get a new battery. It hasn't held a charge properly in two years and takes at least a minute to register that it's being recharged at all.) 

Bellamy breaks his silence to point it out. "...they're not even that expensive. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if Raven or Monty have a spare one just lying around."

"I only ever use it for the internet," she defends. "If I don't have power to charge it, then I don't have wifi either, so it really doesn't matter now, does it?" 

He casts her a dubious look. “Right,” he says slowly, “that’s it. Not the fact that you _can’t_ use it unless it’s stationary and plugged in.”

“Hush you,” she scolds, nudging his ribs gently with her elbow. _When did he get so close?_ He really is dangerously close, she realizes, as the heat radiating off him warms her side and his scent infuses the air between him. She makes a concentrated effort not to inhale and to keep breathing regularly. _It's really not fair that he smells so good._

"You love it," he teases. 

She flips him off as she queues up Netflix, mostly to put a barrier between his gaze and the blush staining her cheeks. He beats her hand away and she gives him a mock glare. If he notices, he doesn't say anything. He's still smiling gently at her over his mug, by all appearances perfectly content. At least she hasn't made it weird yet.

"So, what are we watching?"

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which part of her is judging) the question makes him lean closer into her space, his sides aligned with hers as he takes over scrolling through the options. It's because of their contact that she feels him flinch at the thunder as he hastily clicks on _New Girl_. It seems farther away now, but he's still tense beside her.

"Really?" she teases. Part of it is her genuine surprise that he didn't go for a documentary of some kind, but it's mostly an attempt to make him relax. 

"It was your most recently watched," he defends, though it lacks any bite. "Don't pretend it isn't your comfort show."

"It is, but you were supposed to pick."

"I did."

She rolls her eyes at him, but let's it go and presses play. It's not like he's ever complained about it or dislikes it or anything, so it's not too far out of character. He could just be too tired to focus on anything else. _Plus,_ she reassures herself, _comedies are good. Laughing helps reduce stress. There's no point in pushing._

He grins like he's won and it makes her forget for a second that they're not a couple. She forgets that they haven't ever been in her room together before tonight, that it’s not normal for them to spend nights tucked against each other in her bed. The intimacy between them is so surprisingly easy and familiar that she doesn't think when she reaches out to put the bulky-but-effective noise canceling headset on his head as if her touching him and tussling his hair is normal. She only remembers when he stiffens briefly and coughs a little. 

Like the mature adult she is, she avoids his gaze and hastily puts her earbuds in before turning her full attention to the screen. _New Girl_ is her fun time-to-decompress show. She'll just focus on that and try to pretend the last few embarrassing seconds of her life never happened. Simple in theory, but not in practice, it turns out.

He keeps looking at her. 

It's not terrible, as reactions go, but he looks away every time she looks back and it is starting to get to her. She knows she's probably been a little too forward tonight, but she wanted to help and got carried away. She mistakenly assumed they could move on from her slip-up earlier once they got into the show, but he doesn't seem to have paid attention to any of it. 

He hasn't pulled away. He's still leaned up against her side, maybe even closer, since she laughed a few times and dislodged the laptop once or twice and he saved it from toppling over. It wasn't obvious at first, but the more time that passes, the more frequently she can feel his gaze burning into her, and she has no idea what it means. 

Her nerves are eating her alive by the time the first episode ends, but she forces herself to wait to confront him until then. It doesn't have to be weird. She'll just apologize and they can move on. Right? 

He's already looking at her when she turns to him with a look so raw it makes her suck in sharply. His expression is both open and conflicted as he stares at her. She recognizes the grief in it, but there's something else too. Whatever is on his mind, it’s clear it isn't because of what she did. His hesitation is obvious, however, so she waits with bated breath until he clears his throat and looks away, mumbling something inanely positive about the show and starting the next episode. 

Part of her is disappointed, but she’s relieved too. It was a lot, that look and everything about tonight really, and she doesn’t want to hear anything he isn’t ready to tell her. She’ll happily stay in the comfortable bubble they’ve created so long as he’s happy there too. 

Against all odds, she honestly thinks he is. Despite the lack of talking and the silly sitcom that he isn’t actually a fan of, he’s more relaxed beside her than he was before. About as relaxed as he usually is on movie nights with their friends, which is a huge improvement and a win in her book, considering what a mess he was when he arrived. 

It isn't long before she becomes certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Five minutes into the second episode, he adjusts himself, getting more comfortable in a way that brings him completely into her personal space, and he relaxes more than she’s ever seen him when she tentatively, but clearly intentionally, leans into his side. He hesitates only briefly, but puts his arm fully around her and she settles in like it's the most natural thing in the world. 

It isn't, of course, but she'd happily stay like this for the rest of night. It's probably the exhaustion talking, but she thinks she could quite possibly spend the rest of her life here, if things like eating and drinking weren't necessary to function. Her lips twitch at her own ridiculousness, but she manages to keep it to herself, closing her eyes and basking in the comfort she's found in his embrace. 

Unbeknownst to her, she must have drifted off, because the next thing she's aware of is Bellamy shifting. Opening her eyes, she watches him pause the episode at just over seventeen minutes in. She pulls out her ear buds and tries to sit up, but the arm around her tightens, so she settles for tilting her head back and looking at him. He's removed his own headphones and is refusing to look at her, staring at the screen instead. At the angle she has, it's hard to read the expression he wears, but he looks torn between thoughtful and determined. 

"My mom died during a storm," he says. 

There's nothing particularly telling about his words, no anguish or force behind them, just a statement of fact. Clarke gets it. She's used the same tone when telling people about her own father's death; it's easier that way. Talking about it feels like giving away an intimate part of herself and that's hard enough without letting them see her emotions too. It still feels like there's a vice on her heart though so she grabs his hand instinctually. 

He casts a glance at her, but she just squeezes and he returns the pressure. She doesn't say she's sorry, both because it doesn't do anything and he already knows. They've talked about it before, in general terms, but never the specifics like this. He understands, she thinks, because he gives her a weak smile before looking away again and continuing.

"It was a bad one. Like this. Torrential rain, blinding flashes." He pauses, but she doesn't push. Something tells her he hasn't ever told the story quite like this and he deserves to work through it at his own pace. "It was late when she was on her way home. We lived in this really shitty neighborhood where all the houses were small and crammed together right off the main road. One of the trees got hit by lightning and came down. The guy on the other side of the road panicked and swerved into her, head on. She died on impact."

For the first time, pure emotion shows on his face, twisted grief and gratitude. It’s a lot, she gets it though. Her father died in a car accident too, different, because it was daytime and he had a heart attack while driving, but they revived him and it was days of uncertainty before he finally died. While it meant she had time to say goodbye, the hope and despair of waiting only to lose him was gut-wrenching. Not that the suddenness of his mother's passing wasn’t its own kind of awful too. There’s no good way for it to happen.

"I'm pretty sure I heard it," he whispers. His grip on her tightens and he fists his messy hair with his free hand, finally looking at her with wide and pained eyes. "Which is crazy, I know. There were all sorts of downed trees and branches. One hit the house. It- it didn't break anything. But it was so loud that it woke me up and then there was this huge flash and - it sounded like something exploded, honestly. Then there were the sirens and - "

He breaks off with a curse and Clarke can't help but wrap herself around him fully, finally understanding. She feels terrible for giving him any kind of shit earlier, not that she should have or could have known. Now, she just wants to make him feel better in any way that she can. She thinks it was the right thing to do because he stops trying to pull his hair out and returns her embrace with a shuddering breath. 

"Thank you for telling me," she says quietly but with feeling. The enormity of what he’s divulged isn’t lost on her; she knows that she’s the first, that it was hard but he wanted her to know enough to push through it. The knowledge both warms and humbles her, but now isn’t the time for that. This is about him. 

The stubble of his jaw rubs against her temple as he nods in thanks, and she feels his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. There’s more emotion in his voice as he continues his story. “Storms at night kind of became a thing for me after that. If I knew it was coming, I’d make sure both O and I were home and come up with some bullshit excuse to camp out in the living room together, just so that I could be there if something happened. It sounds ridiculous, but - a tree fell in front of her car. If she’d been ten seconds earlier, or ten feet back, she might have been fine. I just - I wanted to be near O, in case a tree fell on the house or something. It’s stupid - “

“It’s not,” she tells him firmly. Gentler, she says, “It’s really not. What happened… it’s okay to be traumatized by that. It’s okay to worry about keeping your sister safe.”

He hugs her a bit tighter at that, exhaling a breath. “Yeah. I guess.”

“I mean it.”

“I know. It’s just… I feel like I should be over it by now, you know?”

She shrugs. “No one is rational all the time, Bellamy. I wish you didn’t feel this way, but you shouldn’t hate yourself for it either.” She nudges him gently, pulling back to smile at him. “It’s not like you go over to your sister’s apartment when there’s a thunderstorm and insist on sleeping over, right?”

He laughs a little, gratifying her, but then bites his lip looking guilty. She pulls away to gape at him.

“No way! Please tell me you don’t harass your poor sister like that!”

He laughs, looking lighter, but jostles her enough that she has to take his arm to stay upright. “ _No_. I just text her and check the radar. Sometimes I call her, when it’s really bad. We don’t talk about it, but I think she gets it.” 

“Did she not answer tonight? Is that why tonight is so bad?”

“She’s out of town this weekend, camping upstate. No rain there, so I know she’s fine,” he says, but he’s looking away again, and there’s color creeping up his neck and cheek. It’s surprising. He didn’t blush when he told her he was afraid of storms, or when he jumped at the thunder, or even when he admitted that he calls his sister when he’s worried and now…

_Oh_. She feels like beaming, when it hits her, like there’s a sun being born inside her whose warmth and light cannot be contained. Because he didn’t blush all those times, but he did when she pulled him into her room, and he’s doing it now, realizing what he gave away by calling her. It still doesn’t hurt to be sure, though, so she asks.

“So you called me instead?”

He’s cheeks are practically glowing now, and it’s pretty amazing, because she’s never seen him blush so hard before, and his eyes flick to hers so fleetingly that she would have missed it if she hadn’t been studying him so intently. “Yeah,” he says, but it sounds choked.

“Because you were worried?” she presses, leaning back into his space like they were earlier. 

He does turn to look at her fully again once he realizes how close she is even though it seems like he has to force himself not tof. The color is fading from his cheeks, but he’s studying her intently now. She smiles in encouragement. His breath washed over her face as he exhales and nods, leaning in, but not yet closing the gap.

It’s not as much a confession as verbal confirmation would have been, but it’s enough. All she has to do is tilt her head back slightly and their lips are brushing, feather light. It’s just a test, really, and she pulls back a hair, biting her bottom lip as she waits for his reaction. 

He doesn’t leave her hanging, lowering his mouth to hers almost immediately. His kiss is soft too, another test, and she presses back into him stronger. It’s all the encouragement he needs, apparently, one hand settling against the small of her back and the other tangling in her hair as he kisses her for real this time, warm and enthusiastic and _sure_. 

It’s several long seconds or minutes, possibly even hours for how lost she gets in it, before they pull back. His lips are beautifully red and swollen and hers are still tingling when he brushes his nose against hers sweetly and pulls back slightly to offer her a nervous smile.

“That’s okay?” he asks in a breath.

She smiles a bit sheepishly. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re vulnerable. I’m not taking advantage of you, right?”

His laugh is bright and so delighted that it makes the sun in her chest expand almost painfully. She’s never seen him looking so unburdened. “You can’t be serious. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make a move, and I was pretty sure I destroyed any possible chance I had by calling you tonight, but god - I just - I wanted to check in more than anything.”

She laughs in relief at how stupid they both are and he sends her a glare that is completely ruined by the happiness in his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s funny because I was thinking the fact that you called me meant you definitely weren’t interested.” 

He kisses her again, without any of his earlier hesitation, tasting of both joy and understanding, the feeling both new and familiar at the same time. She’s not sure when, but at some point they became each other’s person, and having him now without reservation is amazing. 

Eventually they pull back, smiling goofily and trading stories of how and when they knew. Why they didn’t say anything sooner, laughing at how they’re both idiots. Just being happy and basking in the relief and excitement until they fall asleep curled around one another. 

It’s still dark in her room when they wake up, but the sun is shining brightly when they cook breakfast together in her small kitchen, laughing and trading kisses all the while. She feels hopeful, at peace. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and she’s deliriously happy curled into Bellamy’s side.


End file.
